


Love's Not A Competition, But I'm Winning

by starkly



Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Kissing, Drunken Kissing, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Surprise Kissing, all the kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 07:31:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starkly/pseuds/starkly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, Five Times Grantaire Kissed Enjolras and One Time Enjolras Kissed Him</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love's Not A Competition, But I'm Winning

**Author's Note:**

> This started because all I wanted was stupid kissing booth fluff and it just kept going and I couldn't stop. It's so cheesy, I'm sorry. (Title stolen from a Kaiser Chiefs song.)

**ONE.**

Enjolras still hadn’t figured out how Eponine had convinced him to do this. Guilt might have had something to do with it, but that sort of thing had never worked before. Not knowing bothered him so much that he continued to question Eponine about it even as he was sitting behind the haphazardly constructed booth with the equally hastily painted “kissing booth” banner hung up on it.

“Don’t look so glum,” Eponine chided, counting the pile of euros in the cash box. “Nobody wants to kiss a sourpuss.”

“Good,” Enjolras snapped, frowning at her. “They shouldn’t want to kiss me anyway.”

She shook the cash box at him, grinning. “Our donations seem to differ.”

With a sigh, Enjolras leaned against the booth, watching Eponine adjust the sign so that it was more visible. In a moment of unbecoming spite, he pulled at the opposite end so the banner draped unevenly across the booth.

Eponine said nothing as she evened out the sign then fixed Enjolras with her most serious stare. “Think of it as your patriotic duty to society. Or at least to the women’s shelter down the street.”

Enjolras stared back, thoroughly unamused. “As worthy a cause as that is, why couldn’t you have asked anyone else?”

“I did,” Eponine replied, rolling her eyes. “You think you were my first choice?”

“Very flattering,” Enjolras interjected, and Eponine smiled sweetly at him as she continued.

“Cosette wouldn’t let Marius do it, obviously. Joly kept complaining how unhygienic kissing booths are, and Bossuet actually volunteered but…well you know Bossuet.” She shrugged, hands on her hips. “At the end of the day, you were the only one left.”

“I don’t even know half these women,” Enjolras muttered, shaking his head. “And yet their lips have touched mine.”

She reached over and flicked him on the arm, saying, “Don’t be such a drama queen, you make it sound like it’s the end of the world.”

“Maybe it is,” Enjolras said under his breath, drawing his arm away from Eponine’s reach lest she hit him again. “Maybe I’m about to die.”

“Now you sound like Marius,” she retorted, and the two looked at each other with similar expressions of distaste on their faces before bursting into laughter.

“What’s this? Enjolras laughing?” A new voice joined the fray, Grantaire coming up behind them and slinging an arm around Eponine’s shoulders. “What could possibly be such a cause for celebration, I wonder.”

Enjolras could barely contain a groan at Grantaire’s arrival. Of anyone in their group of friends, Grantaire would be the one to mock him the most for getting caught up in Eponine’s fundraising scheme. (Courfeyrac had come by earlier to poke fun at him, but that was more affectionate than anything else.) Grantaire, however, knew exactly how to get under Enjolras’s skin in the most annoying of ways. But he was good friends with Eponine and, though Enjolras would never admit it, a good debate partner when he chose to be, so Enjolras tolerated his presence more often than not.

Now was one of those latter moments.

“A kissing booth?” Grantaire continued, sounding as incredulous as Enjolras had when Eponine had first broached the subject with him.

“Proceeds go to the women’s shelter,” Eponine explained, pointing in the right direction just in case Grantaire mistook it for a different women’s shelter in a different direction. “Just one euro. It’s practically a steal.”

Grantaire turned his doubting gaze toward Enjolras. “And she got _you_ to do it?”

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t her first choice,” Enjolras replied dryly.

“Thank God,” But Grantaire was smiling and pulling out his wallet, and Enjolras’s retort didn’t make it past his lips as Grantaire fished out a coin and handed it to Eponine.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras asked, forehead furrowing in confusion.

“Donating to your noble cause,” Grantaire said simply.

Eponine grinned and took the euro, adding it to the rest then stepping aside. “Look lively, Enjolras, we’ve got a customer.”

“Why don’t _you_ kiss him?” Enjolras protested, waiting for Eponine to bail him out.

Grantaire and Eponine looked at each other and laughed.

“All right,” Grantaire said when he was done laughing, taking his wallet back out and handing Eponine another euro. She took it with a smile and leaned up to give him a quick kiss on the lips.

She then turned to Enjolras, arms crossed over her chest. Though she was smiling, her posture brooked no further argument. “Happy now?”

“Immensely.” Enjolras sighed, but he sat up straighter on the stool and looked up at Grantaire. “Shall we get on with it?”

“You sure know how to woo a guy,” Grantaire said with a chuckle.

Before Enjolras could respond, Grantaire moved in and kissed him without warning. The taste of beer was obvious on Grantaire, which was hardly appealing, but the feel of fingers slipping through the hair at the nape of his neck startled Enjolras into parting his lips, giving Grantaire an opportunity to lick his way into Enjolras’s mouth. The kiss lasted far longer than the one with Eponine, and when Grantaire finally pulled away, pausing just long enough to nip at Enjolras’s lower lip, Enjolras sat back in a daze, wondering what had just happened.

“That had to be worth two euros at the very least,” Enjolras said when he finally found his voice, blinking away the last of his surprise. He assumed his cheeks were flushed but he couldn’t be certain.

Instead Grantaire pulled out a five euro note and gave it to Eponine. Tucking away his wallet, he beamed at the both of them, saying, “Good luck with the rest of your fundraising.”

“What was that?” Enjolras said slowly, watching Grantaire’s retreating back as he walked away.

“That was seven euros we just made,” Eponine answered, elbowing Enjolras gleefully. “Well done.”

 

**TWO.**

Enjolras didn't see Grantaire for several days after that. He overheard Jehan commenting on that weekend's art show, but thought nothing of it until Grantaire made his grand appearance at last that Friday, paint staining his clothes and hands and likely already drunk.

“It's done,” he announced ominously, coming up to lean on Bahorel, who patted his shoulder sympathetically. “We're having a party.”

Enjolras continued reading his book, ignoring the discussion Grantaire and Bahorel were having over his head. It took him a moment to realize Grantaire was speaking to him, and he looked up when Grantaire snapped his fingers in his face.

“I'm trying to read,” Enjolras said calmly, but the rest of his complaint vanished as he suddenly recalled the affair at the kissing booth the other day. This resulted in his staring up at Grantaire rather lamely for a moment, and for once he was glad that Grantaire had a habit of talking over him when he wanted.

“You're invited too, but only if you drink,” Grantaire was saying, grinning at him. Beside him, Bahorel tried to look as innocent as possible and failed miserably.

“I'll drink a little,” Enjolras conceded, though he knew it would be nowhere near the amount the others wanted him to drink. He'd just never found the appeal in drinking yourself to excess like Grantaire did.

“Great,” Grantaire replied, pushing himself upright off of Bahorel, “Bring friends.”

Easy enough. All his friends would already be there.

* * *

The party is exactly like Enjolras expected. They'd gone through a number of drinking games and were now scraping the bottom of the barrel, in his opinion. Someone, possibly Feuilly, had handed him a second beer, which he was drinking with absolutely glacial speed as he watched a round of Never Have I Ever devolve into Spin the Bottle.

“Do we have to?” Marius asked plaintively as Bossuet elbowed Joly out of the way to spin the empty beer bottle on the table. Everybody ignored Marius, a mixture of laughter and cat calls rebounding through the room as Bossuet then had to kiss Joly in apology for hitting him.

Courfeyrac spun next, and the laughter rose when the bottle landed on Marius, who spluttered an excuse that was yet again ignored by the rest of the group. Cosette merely smiled and sipped at her beer, leaving Marius with no choice but to sit there and accept a quick kiss from Courfeyrac.

“Your turn, Jehan,” Courfeyrac said, sitting back.

“Skip me for now,” Jehan replied, standing up. “Bathroom break.”

Courfeyrac looked like he was going to protest, but Grantaire waved a hand at him to shut up. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor, a bottle of whiskey tucked between his legs, and he wasted no time reaching for the bottle and giving it a spin.

A collective jumble of oohs and aahs rose from the group and Enjolras’s head snapped up from where he’d been contemplating his drink. The bottle had stopped spinning, inconspicuous shape pointing straight at Enjolras through the gap in the circle that Jehan had vacated.

“Kiss Jehan when he comes back,” Enjolras blurted without thinking.

“Who wants to kiss Jehan?” Bahorel said with a grin.

“I heard that,” Jehan shouted from the hallway.

Grantaire staggered to his feet, whiskey bottle clutched tight in his hand as he stumbled over to Enjolras. He barely made it across the room without tripping and fell into Enjolras’s lap. Enjolras automatically raised a hand to Grantaire’s back to brace him so he wouldn’t flop right over.

“You’re drunk,” Enjolras said reprovingly, unsure what to do besides point out the obvious.

“That’s kind of the point,” Grantaire replied, booze strong on his breath. He listed forward, half pressing a kiss to Enjolras’s lips and half falling against his face. As such their second kiss was more chaste and far more unpleasant. Grantaire let out a sigh, resting cheek to cheek with Enjolras, and when Enjolras wrinkled his nose Grantaire lightly kissed the crinkle at the corner of his mouth.

“All right, that’s enough,” Eponine said loudly, tugging on Grantaire’s shoulder. He slipped off Enjolras in one smooth motion, but he didn’t go far, slumped against Enjolras's legs as he watched the rest of the game play out. Enjolras tried to shake him off a few times, but gave up after the third try. 

When the bottle slipped from Grantaire's fingers, Enjolras realized that he had fallen asleep against his knee. Eponine also noticed, but only attempted to balance her beer bottle on the top of his head. It worked for a minute until Grantaire shifted and she had to catch the bottle before it broke against the floor. 

Enjolras almost felt bad waking him up so that he could leave, at least until Grantaire wiped his drool-crusted mouth on Enjolras's pants.

 

**THREE.**

Early in their acquaintanceship, Enjolras and Combeferre began going to football games mostly because Courfeyrac had given them a stern look, said “nobody doesn't like football,” and dragged them off to a match. It had been about as exciting as Enjolras had expected, but he allowed their continued excursions. What he drew the line at, however, was being dragged to other sporting events.

“Nobody may dislike football, but everybody dislikes basketball,” Joly muttered peevishly, sitting on Enjolras's left. On his right sat Grantaire with what was presumably vodka in a water bottle. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet were also sitting past Grantaire and were currently the only three of the group shouting at the game. Unlike Joly, Enjolras found complaining tedious by this point and had resorted to reading terrible forum discussions on communism to amuse himself. Grantaire seemed content with lazily watching the game and his friends, switching back and forth when one started to bore him.

At halftime Enjolras looked up from his phone and stretched, contemplating buying an overpriced soft pretzel. Grantaire leaned over to look at his phone, usurping Enjolras's claim on the arm rest between them in the process.

“Well, no surprises there,” Grantaire remarked with a snort.

Enjolras frowned slightly. “What?”

“You cruising the internet to find people that make you feel superior.”

“I do not — ”

“Right, because you really respect the opinions of — ” Grantaire paused and leaned in closer. “CommieBadazz335 so much.”

“They don't even understand how Marxism works,” Enjolras muttered, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

“Oh no, kiss cam,” Joly whined, and Enjolras and Grantaire looked up just in time to see the camera stop on them.

Courfeyrac hooted and clapped along with the rest of the audience, Combeferre staying quiet but smiling faintly. Grantaire scowled, saying,

“Who invented this dumb thing.”

“Probably Americans,” Enjolras said offhandedly. Grantaire’s face was so close that all it would take to kiss would be a slight turn of his head. “They’re booing us.”

“Because we’re not kissing,” Grantaire replied.

“Oh.” He continued staring at the side of Grantaire’s face. “Should we?”

“Well, if the crowd demands it — ”

And Grantaire laughed and kissed him, all pomp and show for the camera. Bossuet wolf-whistled at them, but all Enjolras could hear was the pounding of his heart in his ears. When Grantaire broke the kiss and Enjolras’s head spun, he knew he had a problem.

* * *

“It's like I'm cursed,” Enjolras complained, twisting a napkin in his lap. Across the table, Combeferre sipped at his coffee and remained silent, so Enjolras continued. “We’ve kissed three times in nearly as many weeks. Don’t you think that’s a problem?”

“Perhaps.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Enjolras, I know you’re not very good at romance — ”

Enjolras flushed angrily. “There’ll be time for that later.”

“But have you considered that you might just need to get laid?”

Enjolras flushed even harder. “Like I said. Time later. Besides, _Grantaire_?”

Combeferre shrugged. “It’s just a suggestion. He seems keen on you.”

“He hates me.”

“He doesn’t seem averse to kissing you.”

“Why did I think that talking to you would help.”

“Because I’m the voice of reason and you know it.”

“Is he...interested in me?” Enjolras asked tentatively, uncertain he wanted to hear the answer.

“I wouldn't know,” Combeferre said, and Enjolras frowned. For someone so knowledgeable, Combeferre was so thoroughly clueless sometimes. “Why don't you ask him?”

“I couldn't,” he replied, looking horrified.

“Why not?”

Enjolras was silent. Combeferre had him there, of course. There really was no reason he couldn't ask Grantaire himself, except of course that he just didn't want to.

“Is there something you're afraid of?”

“Of course not,” Enjolras snapped, scowling into his coffee as he took a sip. “What is there to be afraid of?”

“His answer, obviously.”

“I couldn't care less if he did,” Enjolras protested, but he was unable to meet Combeferre's eye, staring at the lid of his coffee instead. “Say yes, I mean. It doesn't change anything.”

“You don't like him?” Combeferre prompted.

“I don't _dislike_ him, if that's what you're asking. He's...rowdy and disruptive and rude. And he drinks far too much.” Enjolras sighed, setting down his coffee. “But I do enjoy our conversations. He held his own in a debate over the June Rebellion for nearly an hour.”

“The heart is a fickle thing,” Combeferre remarked consolingly, patting Enjolras's hand with a smile. Enjolras snorted and shook Combeferre's hand off.

“One would think you're spending too much time with Jehan,” he said, shaking his head.

Combeferre laughed and sat back in his chair. “I do mean it though, Enjolras. Talk to him. Tell him you're uncomfortable with all the kissing, if that's the case.”

“Yes,” Enjolras said slowly, looking anxious again. “I suppose I should.”

 

**FOUR.**

The problem with being the only sober person at a party is that nobody else helps with clean up duty. Tonight, Feuilly and Cosette were the only ones sober enough and awake enough to help Enjolras this time, but after picking up a few bottles and bags of crushed chips they decided that it was a lost cause to be tackled later and bid each other good night.

The rest of the partygoers were spread around the flat Enjolras shared with Combeferre, sleeping on whatever available surfaces they could find, be it furniture or floor. Or, in the case of Grantaire, Enjolras’s bed.

He was curled up under the comforter, clutching a bottle of wine to his chest like it was his only child, and when Enjolras entered the room he rolled over, spilling wine on the sheets.

“Hey! You’re ruining my sheets,” Enjolras snapped, going to wake him. 

Grantaire stirred but didn’t acknowledge his presence. 

“Come on, get up,” Enjolras persisted, shaking Grantaire by the shoulder after taking the bottle from him.

“Five more minutes, Eponine,” Grantaire muttered, shrugging Enjolras’s hand off.

“This isn’t funny,” Enjolras said with a frown. He leaned down to try and lift Grantaire up, but the man was heavier than he looked.

Grantaire flung an arm around Enjolras’s shoulders, either too drunk or too tired to realize what was going on. “You’re cute when you’re angry,” he said, and pulled Enjolras down for a kiss. It was the briefest of their kisses but certainly the most uncomfortable. Grantaire smelled of booze, though that wasn’t uncommon. He called Enjolras ‘Eponine’ again before slipping back off to sleep.

Enjolras gave up and slept on the floor, but not before stealing his pillow and blanket from Grantaire.

* * *

Later that week, Grantaire presented him with a brand new set of sheets the color of wine.

“Just in case it happens again,” he said as he held them out, and Enjolras was touched enough that Grantaire’s actual words didn’t register until later.

 

**FIVE.**

Enjolras was still trying to process the last few weeks when it happened again. He thought maybe he’d just dreamt it, which was troubling in itself, but Combeferre confirmed that it actually happened. Enjolras wasn’t a huge believer in fate, but he was willing to admit that she really had it out for him.

He’d agreed to meet a few of their friends at a new coffee shop Feuilly had been telling them to try out, mostly to get some drinks and talk politics as they liked to do when they had some free time. Grantaire showed up now and again, mostly to sit in the corner and pour Baileys into his coffee while he played Devil’s advocate in their debates. Today’s meeting was no different, and Grantaire acted like he and Enjolras hadn’t been kissing with alarming frequency lately. Enjolras kept watch out of the corner of his eye, but Grantaire just sipped at his coffee and played along like he always did.

“Can we talk?” Enjolras asked uncertainly when they were packing up their things to leave. 

Grantaire looked up at him in surprise, pulling a scarf tighter around his neck. “I wasn’t any worse than usual, was I?”

“Wha — no, not about that.” Enjolras glanced over his shoulder at the rest of the group still milling around the tables. “Let’s move this outside.”

With a shrug, Grantaire followed Enjolras out of the café, tugging his hat more securely over his ears at the touch of cold in the air. “If this is about the stains on your sheets, I did buy you new ones,” he protested.

Enjolras resolutely ignored the stares from a pair of old women who exited the shop after them, keeping his gaze on Grantaire instead. “It’s not that. Well, it’s kind of about that — not the stains, though that was kind of you to replace them — ”

“Enjolras, just spit it out,” Grantaire interrupted, looking exasperated.

What Enjolras spit out wasn’t his intended question but more of a high-pitched yelp of surprise that was quickly smothered by Grantaire’s lips on his. It happened so fast that Enjolras had Combeferre relay the incident three or four times before he accepted it, and even then he still didn’t believe it had been an accident.

Bahorel and Joly had rushed out of the café in a hurry, mostly because Bahorel had hit on a waitress on Joly’s behalf and Joly wasn’t too happy about it. Laughing, Bahorel called on Grantaire to defend him from Joly’s irritation, misjudged the distance from the door to Grantaire, and hit him firmly in the back.

Grantaire, as fate would seemingly have it, slipped on a patch of ice and fell into Enjolras’s arms, not in any particularly romantic way but at just the right angle to smash their mouths together. Enjolras winced at the sound of their teeth hitting and struggled to get Grantaire standing upright again. Surveying the damage, he noticed a bead of blood on Grantaire’s lip where the impact had cracked chapped skin and he fought the urge to wipe it away with his thumb.

Combeferre was definitely getting called in for another emergency meeting that night.

* * *

“I want to get drunk,” Enjolras said by way of greeting, and Combeferre had the sense to immediately look alarmed.

“What’s wrong?”

“Everything.”

“You’re being dramatic again, Marius,” Combeferre replied with a smile, and Enjolras made a mental note to perhaps tell everyone to tone down the dramatic Marius jokes. “Come on now, what is it?”

“I couldn’t ask Grantaire anything.”

“And why not?”

Enjolras silently hated Combeferre for being so calm about this. _He_ was the calm one, except when he was debating, sometimes, and oftentimes in class, and that time his neighbor’s cat had gotten onto his windowsill and dug up all his plants — But that wasn’t important. No, he couldn’t fault Combeferre for being the calm one about this. He needed someone like Combeferre to step in and tell him he was being an idiot, as seldom as that happened.

“Is this a pride thing?” Combeferre asked, genuinely curious. Enjolras shrugged and stretched out his legs on the couch, setting his feet in Combeferre’s lap. Combeferre started massaging one of them without being prompted, and Enjolras immediately took back every bad thing he’d ever thought about Combeferre.

“At first it was just embarrassing,” Enjolras admitted slowly, staring at the ceiling. “But now I think the universe is just playing a cruel trick on me.”

“I think that’s normal for the universe,” Combeferre said in that placating tone of his, and Enjolras just hummed and closed his eyes, trying not to think of anything important for once in his life.

 

**\+ ONE.**

Somehow it always came back to sports. They were all crammed into Courfeyrac’s living room, the latest football match blaring on the TV. Jehan was tucked up against Enjolras’s side on the couch, leaning on his shoulder as he advised Enjolras on the debate he was writing.

“Stop working,” Bahorel whined, slumping down in his seat and poking Enjolras’s knee with his foot.

“I have a debate tomorrow,” Enjolras answered, not looking up from his notebook.

“Yes, our future president has far more important things to do than watch football,” Grantaire remarked from Enjolras’s other side where he had somehow ended up without Enjolras noticing.

Enjolras didn’t react, but just barely. “I doubt I’ll become president.”

“Aw, Enjolras, you’ve got to have big dreams,” Bossuet said with a laugh, tearing himself away from the game for a moment to grin at him.

“I’d vote for you,” Feuilly added helpfully.

“Thank you, Feuilly,” Enjolras said, “but I think I’m going to focus on graduating first.”

He’d never graduate at this rate with these hooligans hanging around shouting at the TV. Even Jehan was absorbed in the match by the end, joining in the shouting as the game went into overtime. Enjolras sighed and tried to focus on his writing, but the tension was catching, and he found himself watching the last several minutes of the match. Eponine was draped over Grantaire’s shoulders, perched on the arm of the couch and feigning disinterest, but even she became engrossed along with the rest of the group, hollering over Grantaire’s head.

It was a blink and you miss it goal, but suddenly the match was won, the seconds on the clock ticking away to nothingness. An overwhelming chorus of cheers rose up in the room. Courfeyrac leapt out of his seat and nearly knocked Eponine off the couch while Marius overturned a bowl of pretzels in his excitement. Enjolras was grinning and he had no idea why, he had absolutely no emotional investment in this football match and he didn’t care who won or lost. But as he turned to Grantaire, it suddenly all clicked. Grantaire was smiling, not like Enjolras was used to, but a real smile that actually reached his eyes. This inconsequential football match had made Grantaire smile.

Enjolras would like to blame Courfeyrac for what happened next, but Eponine later swears it was fate. Regardless, it happened like this:

Courfeyrac grabbed Eponine and pulled her into a celebratory hug, causing her to kick Grantaire and knock him over into Enjolras, who startled and pushed his papers out of the way. Grantaire never stopped grinning, looking up from Enjolras’s lap with bright eyes, and Enjolras’s heart fluttered, chest constricting with unease.

He hated Grantaire for putting him in situations like this, he hated his friends for holding these parties in the first place, and he hated himself for reacting in a way he didn’t understand.

But Grantaire was smiling like Enjolras had never seen him before and it was beautiful.

That smile softened into one of confusion as Grantaire realized Enjolras was staring at him. “What?”

“Can I kiss you?” It came out without thought, all other sound relegated to background noise as he waited for the answer. Or, more preferably, for Grantaire to move so that he could escape and pretend he’d never said anything.

Grantaire was silent, half-smile frozen on his face in surprise. Enjolras regretted saying anything at all and swore not to talk to Combeferre for at least a week as punishment. He opened his mouth to take it back, to make up some excuse for what had come over him, but Grantaire beat him to it.

“Took you long enough,” he muttered, hair falling over his eyes as he smirked up at Enjolras. For once in his life not trusting himself to speak, Enjolras brushed Grantaire’s hair away from his face, then gripped his shoulder tight and bent down for a kiss.

It wasn’t unexpected or coerced, wasn’t painful or unpleasant, wasn’t masked by booze or sleep. It was just a kiss, and as kisses went, it was kind of perfect.

Not that Enjolras had such a good track record with kissing Grantaire to compare.

He broke away at the sound of whistling and applause from the rest of his friends, a faint blush gracing his cheeks as he sat up. Grantaire stayed where he was, smile even wider (if that was possible). Eponine was hugging Grantaire’s legs and whooping, the sight so absurd that Enjolras couldn’t help but laugh. Combeferre caught his eye from across the room and nodded, the two men exchanging a quick smile before Bahorel and Jehan grabbed Enjolras by the shoulders and exclaimed their congratulations.

“It was just a kiss,” Enjolras protested, confused why any of them should be so excited.

“We had a betting pool going,” Bossuet admitted mournfully. It wasn’t hard to guess that he’d lost money to it. Behind him, Marius was dolefully handing Cosette a handful of bills.

Grantaire laughed, draping an arm over his eyes. “Why am I not surprised?”

“I figured it was only a matter of time before Enjolras inevitably cracked,” Bahorel replied with a shrug.

“Hush, I think it’s sweet,” Cosette told him, smiling at the pair on the couch. Grantaire made an exaggerated gagging noise at being called ‘sweet’ and Eponine whacked him on the leg.

“Okay, everyone stop bellyaching and clean up the mess you all made in my apartment,” Courfeyrac interjected before anyone else could comment. He clasped Enjolras’s shoulder as he walked by, adding, “But thanks for winning me Bossuet’s money, Romeo.”

“Excuse me, I’m obviously Romeo,” Grantaire said, finally sitting up. His hair was mussed from lying awkwardly on Enjolras’s legs, but he didn’t make any attempt to fix it. “That one’s Juliet.”

“Nobody’s anybody who dies at the end of their book,” Eponine protested, pushing Grantaire’s legs out of the way so she could get up and start cleaning.

“Definitely Juliet,” Grantaire continued anyway, grinning at Enjolras. “Your hair’s nicer. What do you think, Combeferre?”

Enjolras shut him up with another kiss and Grantaire gladly complied. Yes, he thought as Grantaire laughed against his lips, he could definitely get used to this.


End file.
